


Everyone's A Clever Clone

by ybrows



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clones, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, First Kiss, Galra Keith (Voltron), M/M, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Slow Build, Someone Help Them, oblivious boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9463316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ybrows/pseuds/ybrows
Summary: The Paladins are sent to a planet inhabited by a species with the ability to copy the appearance of others. Lance thought he'd be living the life, surrounded by adoring versions of himself. He didn't count on being surrounded by multiple Keiths, too.Lance’s shoulders sagged. Watching his own body distort and dissolve and eventually settle into the broad-shouldered, Adonis of a man that is Takashi Shirogane was a little disheartening. It was pretty much how his naive twelve-year-old self had imagined puberty would go, like a dreamy animorphs book cover.Whatever, he thought, at least it didn’t turn into Keith.





	1. Introduce Your Other Self

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from blur's popscene!  
> warning for slight s2 spoilers (just the keith thing, and i think we all know the keith thing) (not the keith thing aka he loves lance) (the other keith thing)

**MISSION 32.A.**  
**PLANET: SAMWA.**  
**CITY: ERTIA [CAPITAL].**  
**SPECIES: KLONNWAR.**

 **IMPORTANT NOTES:**  
**THE KLONNWAR ARE EXPERT MIMICS.**  
**PALADINS, BEWARE OF WHO YOU’RE**  
**TALKING TO.**

* * *

 

 

Lance admired himself in the reflective surface of the common room table as Allura addressed the Paladins, briefing them quickly and professionally on their next mission. This was one of diplomacy, she’d said, and not kickin’ ass, which was the main reason for his distraction. Yeah, he decided, he was going to get Coran to cut his hair before they left.

“Again, I must remind you, the Klonnwarr are a species famed for their mimicry,” Allura said, “their ability to replicate and imitate other species is beyond rivalry. Were we to have them as allies, infiltration would be effortless.”

She sounded a little bitter, Lance thought. Probably mad that her mimicking skills weren’t as boss as the Klonnwar’s, not that she needed them. Allura was F.I.N.E without the help of any sciencey-magicy stuff. He opened his mouth to remind her of that fact, but Coran cut in before he could speak.

 _Coran-blocked_ , as Lance had coined it, _again_. It was like the dude’s moustache gave his mouth +5 speed and, shit, he could actually _hear_ Pidge’s influence in that thought.

“Lucky, or perhaps unlucky for us, they’re a solitary bunch!” Coran said, “or else we’d be forever wondering if one of our own was a Klonnwar in disguise! Why, Lance here could be one of them right now and we’d _never know_.”

That shocking revelation was enough to get Hunk leaping away from his best bud with all the elegance of a cat presented with a cucumber; he landed butt-first on the floor beside the sofa, eyeing Lance with utmost suspicion.

“Please,” Lance said, “ain’t no species in all three-trillion or whatever universes that could replicate _this_.”

One wormhole, a thirty-tick flight and three renditions of Hunk's _Hollaback Girl_ later, here he stood, corrected.

The surface of the planet was a dull orange, gradually becoming brighter beyond the horizon as it rose and faded into lilac. The trees were white and spindly like hipster Christmas decorations, and the city beyond – Ertia – was vast and metallic.

Lance didn’t care about any of that, though.

Not when there was an exact replica of himself three yards away.

This was the part where he was supposed to freak out. The others looked worried; two Lances on one planet was clearly too much for the average Human (and one Human-Galra hybrid) to handle. Too much swag in one square-meter, he decided, and then stepped forward to have a closer look.

Allura had mentioned, when Lance had been listening, that the Klonnwar utilized their mimicry as a mark of respect; imitation being the highest form of flattery _et cetera, et cetera_. She had predicted, looking at Shiro, that their leader would take the form of the Paladin’s head honcho as soon as they stepped out their lions. And her suspicions weren’t unfounded; the chief Klonnwar had transformed himself instantly - still in his ceremonial robes, adorned with golden thread and badges of honour, but boasting the sharp facial structure and schoolboy charm of the one and only Lance McClain.

Lance McClain: _Leader_.

It was uncanny: the Klonnwar was the exact same height as him with the same lean figure, blue eyes, dark skin, hot bod. The only noticeable difference came from their eyebrow movement when Lance leant in further, almost nose-to-nose. The Klonnwar raised his in confusion, whilst Lance’s wiggled into his signature smoulder.

“Well, hey good lookin,” Lance said.

There was a chorus of sighs in his ears.

“ _Stop flirting with yourself, Lance_ ,” Pidge whispered through the comms. “ _It’s weird_.”

“ _Really weird_ ,” Keith added. Deadpan. As if he wouldn’t do the exact same thing. You know, looking like that.

Then again, Lance wasn’t sure if Keith _could_ flirt. The idea was laughable if it wasn’t so damn sad. Keith could be getting some alien action all over the galaxy if only he got his head out of his ass and did some research on how to socialise like a normal Human being. Galra being. Halra? Galman?

Whatever. The point stood: Lance was totally up for offering guidance in the matter. Sure, they weren’t _friends_ , but that didn’t mean Lance wasn’t willing to share his expertise with the ladies if Keith just sucked up his pride and asked (begged) nicely. Lance knew he’d be an excellent wingman, if only he had someone to test his skills out on; Pidge wasn’t interested in anything but her hard drive, Hunk was heart-eyed for that Shay chick, and Shiro? Well, he probably didn’t need the help.

Keith coughed curtly, whipping Lance out of his thought-detour. He huffed a little nervously ( _how was he getting distracted by Keith when his own clone was stood before him?)_ and did what he was told, shuffling away from one pair of his own eyes and a few hundred pairs of others.

It seemed their arrival had caused quite a stir, with most of the capital city of Ertia gathering to welcome them. Without replication, Lance noticed, their skin varied between stark white and dark grey, with round eyes a metallic silver, almost reflective, and limbs that hung lifelessly - too long to be Human.

Gradually, though, half the Klonnwar began excitedly changing parts of their bodies to reflect the other members of Voltron. A few bomber jackets here and there, a smaller number of mullets and large, round glasses. _Does this mean they're actually naked and their clothing's just an illusion? Can they take the jackets off?_ Lance was about to whisper his boatload of questions to the comms when he remembered that he’d been completely ignoring what their leader was saying.

 _You’re the leader now_ , _Lance_ , he reminded himself, _gotta step up to the plate_. 

Then Shiro stood up from where he’d been tying his shoelaces and the Klonnwar leader transformed without hesitation.

Lance’s shoulders sagged. Watching his own body distort and dissolve and eventually settle into the broad-shouldered, Adonis of a man that is Takashi Shirogane was a little disheartening. It was pretty much how his naive twelve-year-old self had imagined puberty would go, like a dreamy animorphs book cover.

 _Whatever_ , he thought, _at least it didn’t turn into Keith_.

“Greetings, I am Mizmo,” the Klonnwar said, now focussed entirely on Shiro and looking, if Lance wasn’t mistaken, a little relieved. “We’re honoured to be visited by the Paladins of Voltron. Your recent philanthropy and success in battle has reached our ears and we find it utterly delightful.”

Lance definitely wasn’t mistaken, now: this dude was flirting. Maybe imitation wasn’t the highest form of flattery after all - maybe _flattery_ was.

Jot that down.

“ _Remember, lads and lady, this isn’t a done deal just yet!_ ” Coran whispered dramatically through the coms, “ _the Klonnwar love to compliment anything that’s enticing enough to replicate. We’ve got a lot of power and they’re aware of it. They could be planning on dressing up as Hunk and striding straight into the yellow lion for all we know, so keep wary! Coran out!_ ”

There was a buzz of static as Shiro moved forward, extending his hand to shake. When Mizmo took it in his own identical palm, onlookers shifted their hair to have a streak of silver at the front, or drew scars across their noses.

“Sheesh, talk about fanclub,” Lance muttered to his left, not checking to see if it was Hunk. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Watching two Shiros touch each other helped Lance conjure enough awkward, hormone driven, super-secret alone time material for a lifetime; or at least until he found himself something not as freakin’ creepy to fantasize over. Was it creepy? It certainly wasn’t normal, he supposed, but doing it to thoughts of one Shiro was probably just as bad as two, and it wasn’t like Lance was a saint or anything.

“Stop it,” Keith snapped back, “I know what you’re thinking.”

Damn, not Hunk then. Lance sighed, it appeared he'd just _have_ to talk to Keith.

“You only know what I’m thinking if you’re thinking it, too,” Lance said. “Hey, does it count as masturba-”

“I said stop it. You’re disgusting.”

“You’re disgusting, too, then.”

“No I’m not!”

“Are.”

“Not!”

“Are.”

“Not!”

“Uh, guys?” Hunk had managed to slide closer to the two during their hushed exchange, leaning in surreptitiously as if the Klonnwar wouldn’t hear him speaking if he continued looking ahead. “You’re causing a reaction.”

The idea of a mission going wrong caused Keith to look up sharply ( _nerd_ ), and Lance followed suit (less nerdy, more casual, like turning up to school five minutes late). Everything seemed in order and, seeing as Shiro hadn’t introduced the rest of the Paladins yet, they obviously hadn’t missed much.

Then he noticed it.

A few rows behind Mizmo stood a group of, presumably, teenage Klonnwar. They’d given up observing Shiro’s introduction and were now gazing, infatuated, with Lance and Keith. At least, he presumed it was them, going by the little collection of Lances and Keiths they’d become.

“Awesome! Now _we_ have a fanclub.”

“That’s the opposite of awesome,” Keith said, “can we ask them to stop?”

“Allura and Coran said that its majorly offensive to ask them to change back,” Pidge whispered from Keith’s other side with the same super sneaky technique as Hunk. “We need to befriend these people, remember.”

“That’ll be difficult if they all look like Lance,” Keith replied, and Lance kicked himself because that joke was _so_ obvious. Why hadn’t he thought of it? Stupid Keith with his stupid, random wit - rare enough to make Lance complacent until _boom_ , it hit him in the balls.

Before he even had a chance to conjure a comeback, Shiro turned to face them.

“And let me introduce you to the rest of my team,” he said, smiling like he was so damn proud of all of them. Shiro’s calm, captivating smile could make babies grow fairy wings, Lance thought. Not in a weird way, in a magical, fairy-tale way, in which Shiro was Prince Charming with a metal arm and a giant, mechanical lion. “Pidge Gunderson, Keith Kogane, Lance McClain and Hunk Garrett. Together: The Paladins of Voltron.”

Mizmo walked forward with Shiro’s controlled stride copied down to a T, but the excitement was clear. He shook each of the Paladin’s hands in turn, an expert at replicating Human customs as well as appearances, and altered his eye colour to match those belonging to each hand he took.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Mizmo said, “you all possess such handsome bodies.”

“Oh, we know,” Lance said. Keith kicked him in the shin.

“Thank you,” Keith said, though it was strained. Like he didn’t believe it. Jheeze, just begging for compliments, as if Lance would automatically start cooing _oh but Keith, you’re so strong and flexible, and your hair’s so pretty, and your eyes shine an unnatural amount a lot of the time, especially when you’re passionate, and when you tie your hair back so I can see your face it’s kinda like – like –_

Like a big pile of something crappy. Like broccoli. Yeah. Lance 154 – Keith 1.

Besides, Lance wasn’t going to say those things ever; one, because they weren’t true and, two, because he had dignity, thank you very much.

“And your body, most of all,” Mizmo said, honing in on Keith, “is incredibly interesting; you aren’t entirely human, are you, Paladin Keith?”

Lance found himself stepping forward defensively before he’d even registered what he was doing; Pidge and Hunk quick to follow. He hadn’t had the chance to tell Keith that he was alright with the whole 50% Empirical-Warlord-Race thing yet (or maybe there’d been plenty of opportunity, but no words), but that didn’t mean he didn’t _think_ it: Keith was still a Paladin, still one of the team. Still Keith.

“Uh, no,” Keith said. “I’m not.”

“Wonderful,” Mizmo said, predatory. It was disconcerting seeing Shiro’s face so un-Shiro, “then you, too, know the joy of being so much more than one species, yes?”

“I … guess?” Keith said, shrinking into himself. Lance didn’t like that. When Keith was getting attacked, insulted, beaten in a game of _Frustration_ , he didn’t make himself smaller – he became so much bigger: not in appearance, precisely, but the quiet flame inside him became a _real_ fire, shooting out retorts as quickly as he could shoot bad guys.

“Alright, that’s that, then! Keith’s got a little something extra in him, we’re all hot, and Shiro is our supreme, sex-God leader,” Lance said, and a group of Lances in the audience giggled. Whoa. “Now, uh. To business?”

“ _Keep it respectful, Lance_ ,” Allura said through comms, exasperated. Like Lance wasn’t the king of intergalactic schmoozing.

Keith, however, was looking at him strangely, like Lance had done something right.

“Of course,” Mizmo said, and ushered Shiro forward from where he’d been showing his arm to someone in the front row, letting them mimic the buttons. “I believe you’ll find your accommodation quite desirable. Please, follow me.”

His cloak swished elegantly as he turned to leave, and Lance was pleased to see the back of him; at least, then, he could imagine he wasn’t a creepy copy of Shiro. As they made their way through the parted crowd, Lance caught a replica of himself holding hands with a very content looking Keith.

 _Alright, then_ , Lance decided, _gonna need a lot of brain bleach_.


	2. Waking up Beside Your Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments and kudos! I can't believe this is a whole 2500 words before they even have breakfast, I'm so sorry.

The accommodation was more than quite desirable, it was _fancy_. A perfect mix of the Castle’s chic, sci-fi minimalism and Lance’s home on Earth – busy and cluttered, background music weaving through mismatched furniture.

Lance slept like a baby which, when he thought about it, was a dumb expression. Babies generally slept like crap, waking their parents at ungodly hours just because they need to use the wazz-palace (the wazz-palace being Lance’s preferred name for the bathroom; it hadn’t caught on yet, but he figured time would tell. As with a lot of things, he was playing the long game).

The only time Lance generally woke before his alarm was during those irritating, fragmented nights, where his stomach felt heavy (as if he’d eaten some of Hunk’s asparagus cupcakes) and his mind flitted through shitty thoughts like an old-fashioned zoetrope of insecurity. On those nights, he’d knock on the wall that he shared with Keith, the ole _rat-tat-tat_ , because it wasn’t fair for Keith – the dude _supposed_ to be up at 2am being listening to emo music and contemplating existentialism – to have a good night’s sleep if Lance couldn’t.

Sometimes Keith would hit back with one solid _thud_ , sometimes he’d hear a faint “ _go the fuck to sleep, Lance,”_ and sometimes he’d get back nothing. On the latter nights, Lance usually stayed awake – not because Keith’s presence made it easier to sleep, or anything. But because he was used to noise; used to his brothers and sisters going for a midnight snack or a midnight wazz (see, catchy). Someone accidentally shouting a video game or giggling to their mates online.

The Altean castle was silent at night. At first, he expected there to be whirs of life (Hunk going for a midnight snack, Pidge shouting at a video game, _anything_ ) but, instead, it was still. Unnerving.

In the Palace of Ertia, however, Lance fell asleep to sounds of people stumbling around the streets outside, singing and catcalling and cackling to themselves.

He awoke to find Hunk in a maid outfit.

“Good morning, sir,” Hunk said, and Lance choked on his own spit for a few moments before rationalizing the situation. Breathing deeply, blushing wildly and laughing manically. This was one of those lucid dreams, right? No, no. The other one, where you can’t pick what you see. Sleep paralysis! This was sleep paralysis, and whatever space God was looking down on Lance this day was punishing him for thinking about Shiro making out with himself yesterday. “Sir?” Hunk said again.

“ _Hunk_?” Lance said, voice hoarse with either sleep, shock, or a bit of both. “I didn’t realize you were so kinky, man. Jheeze. Does Shay know?”

“Shay? Oh,” Hunk laughed, light and a little unsure of himself. Melodically, even. “Forgive me, sir. We were instructed to awaken our charge in the form that would be most relaxing. Within our knowledge, of course. We’re an incredibly perceptive race. I believed I had made the correct decision but, I see now, I was wrong?”

 _Right_. Land of the coquettish clones. How had he forgotten? The Klonnwar maid appeared in no hurry to change, though, probably adamant that they were correct in their assumption despite Lance’s inability to stare, horrified, anywhere but Hunk’s hairy thighs. 

“Oh! Right, sorry. Brain needs a bit of a warm-up in the morning, you know?” He said. “Yeah, Hunk’s my best buddy so that … that was a good call. Well done! But, uh, have you seen him wear … that?”

The Klonnwar looked down and giggled, playing with the frilly hem of the skirt.

“Ah, no. This is our uniform, and I’m quite fond of it.”

Great, Lance thought, as the Klonnwar peered at him beneath their lashes as if to say _aren’t you fond of it, too, sailor?_ And in truth, yeah, probably. If it wasn’t his _best friend_ in it.

“Yeah it’s really great! Really, really great. Just not very … Hunk?”

“Oh, I see. Don’t you humans wish to see everyone looking as desirable as they can?”

“Sure!” Lance said, because _diplomacy_. “Just not someone who you prefer to see in a platonic light, if you catch my drift.”

“Besides family, we Klonnwar rarely see others in such light,” the Klonnwar, still mimicking Hunk despite Lance’s outward discomfort, explained. “But I will change, for you, _sir_.”

Damn. They really did like to flirt. Lance was beginning to feel like this was his chance to score an actual alien babe – then he remembered that all aforementioned alien babes were on the trend of dressing like his fellow Paladins and changed his mind.

As if to prove him wrong, the Klonnwar reverted to their standard form. A tall girl with silver hair, grey skin and eyes that reflected the world around her.

And, oh _b-b-b-boy_. She kept the uniform.

“This is more pleasing, I see,” she said. Lance didn’t even consider arguing. “I’m afraid I must take my leave, now, to help prepare breakfast, but, as your ward, I will return to give you the grand tour of Ertia. Does that take your fancy?” 

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Lance said, brushing his hair back with his fingers, “it sure does.”

The Klonnwar smiled and bowed her leave.

“I am Mituu,” she said. “It has been a pleasure. Breakfast will be served in the shared area, shortly.”

Lance slammed his head back on his pillow grinning madly. This was it, he thought. This was his time. He was going to do it, he was going to prove to the others that he was a real-life stud. A stud with _stats_ , a stud with _style_ , a stud with, shit, absolutely no idea what he was doing.

But it would come naturally, right? The Klonnwar seemed experienced (more than experienced, even; it looked to be in their DNA) and enthusiastic, and Lance definitely had one of the two.

Whistling as if the deed had already been done, Lance moseyed into the shared area and slid onto one of the crescent shaped sofas surrounding the table. Beyond, a wall-length window displayed a panoramic view of Ertia city, tall towers and extravagant balconies littered with last night’s party props.

“Ya’know,” Lance said to no one in particular, “I think this is where I belong.”

Then Keith appeared and sat stubbornly on the opposite end of the couch, grimacing at the planet as if it had stained his favorite bad-boy jacket.

“And what’s got you so grumpy-goo, this morning?” Lance cooed. Keith refused to look at him.

“Nothing. I just –” he paused, considering. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh, _sure_. So, totally unrelated, who woke _you_ up?”

Keith froze, as if all his bones had locked into place, and flushed a shade of red deeper than his lion.

“No one.”

“ _No one_?” Lance found himself spreading across the sofa, on his stomach, cheeks in his palms, leering excitedly. “Go on, was it Allura? Was it Shiro?” He scrunched his nose up, “ _Coran_?”

“What? No!” Keith stared at him. For a moment, Lance wondered if he’d grown a fluffy pair of ears and a tail which, for a half-Galra, shouldn’t have made that much of an impact. “It was just a generic Klonnwar, alright? Shove off.”

“Shove off? Wow, Keith. My great-great-grandpa just called, he wants to high-five you for that sick burn.”

Lance did that thing that his mom used to tell him to do while speaking; count to ten, and if it doesn't feel like a good idea, don't say it. He made it to three and said it anyway. 

“Was it Shiro, though?” Lance asked, “did you see Shiro in a small, frilly dress?”

“God, no, can you just shut up?” Keith said, now with his arms spread as if flapping them like wings would fly him out of the conversation. “You really don't know how to take a hint, do you? Let me guess, _Allura_ woke you up, and you flirted with her and she flirted back and now you're under the impression that everything here is _real_ and not some sort of identity torture chamber just to make us _snap_!”

Looking back, maybe this wasn't the personal attack on his ego Lance took it to be. Maybe it wasn't a kick to his intimate parts (inside and out), and maybe Lance should have seen it for what it was: something in common.

But in the moment, Keith had just taken everything glorious about this excursion and turned it on its head; a fantasy-reality switcheroo that Lance had not, repeat, had _not_ , asked for. He was on holiday, dammit. He was allowed to pretend that things were different – that he was different.

And who the hell did wake Keith up, then? Who had the ability to get him so shook? He doubted it was family – that would hardly be ‘relaxing,’ and, unless Keith kept a framed photo by his bedside, the Klonnwar would have no idea what they looked like. Hell, even Keith wasn’t sure.

The idea of Allura made Lance squirm. It made sense, now they’d had that ‘you’re a fluffy Galra friend on the inside’ moment, but was Keith truly interested in her in _that_ way? Nah. No. Nada. It’s not that Lance had a monopoly on crushing on the princess (because Shiro had discreetly taken the reigns on that ship months ago), but he totally had a monopoly on getting Keith to blush, okay?

 _Shit_ , he thought _, scratch that_.

Besides, Keith’s little hothead speech earlier basically confirmed it wasn’t her. Lance wasn’t relieved, exactly, but his heart did deflate a bit. Shiro remained his best bet; Keith hardly got out much, and his hero worship shtick had got old, like, a gazillion ticks ago.

Then again, what if it wasn't Shiro, either? What if there was actually someone out there flirting with Keith, an alien friend he'd made when Lance wasn't looking, who was now becoming something more? Something tangible outside of Lance’s repetitive rhetorical questioning?

Which would be weird, ‘cause Lance was kinda always looking.

“Mine was Hunk, thank you very much. And he looked beautiful,” Lance said. “Go be salty about having no friends somewhere else.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

Then Allura walked out of Shiro’s room in full maid outfit, and Lance’s jaw hit the floor. Keith’s followed. Both of them caught themselves and switched to seething at the other end of the sofa with their eyes closed until Shiro sat between them.

Silence ensued.

“They got her nose wrong,” he said, finally.

Lance hadn’t been looking at her nose.

“God,” Keith said, breathy and exasperated and broken. “Is it rude to _subtly suggest_ they change?”

Shiro gave him a sympathetic shoulder squeeze.

“I know it’s unnerving to see copies of ourselves, or half-copies in some cases,” he said, “but we’re doing this for a good cause. For Allura.”

“Says the man who looks like an animated statue of, like, ten Gods combined,” Lance said, and Keith huffed.

“Exactly.”

“Whoa, hold the press! Did you just agree with me, Kogane?”

“I don’t make it my mission to disagree with you all the time, Lance,” Keith said. “That’s what _you_ do.”

“No I don’t.”

“Point proven.”

“Come on,” Shiro warned, “how can we be expected to form a healthy alliance with an entire planet if we can’t even form one between ourselves?”

“Don’t blame me,” Keith said, “at least I’ve been trying.”

Lance didn’t dignify that with an answer; it wasn’t _his_ fault he always pushed, he was just adhering to the confines of their dynamic. Anything out of the range of insults and occasional life-saving felt dangerous, like walking into Room 101 with no idea what you’ll find, only to open the door and realize that it couldn’t be anything else.

He was playing it safe, and he enjoyed playing it safe. It worked, and he got to make Keith’s hackles rise in the meantime.

“Do you reckon they get our bits in proportion?” Lance said, in lieu of an apology, “you know, down there.”

“Worried?” Keith sneered.

“Only for the reputation of Voltron after they see what his right arm’s packing.”

“Yeah, and you’re hiding Voltron’s third leg somewhere, too, right?”

“You two, stop!” Shiro said, standing up just to look down on them, disappointment radiating. He opened his mouth, likely to give a wholesome, wholehearted speech about the benefits of friendship and trust, but then the doors opened and a line of Klonnwar entered. They were each carrying a serving platter of delicious smelling, orange food, and Hunk and Pidge followed the procession calmly, like two people who’d already befriended the entire planet.

Knowing them, it was possible.

“Where did you two go?” Lance asked. Not jealous. They could have adventures without him. Whatever.

“I got woken up by Matt,” Pidge said, and Lance’s heart sunk. Pidge, however, gave them a smile that spoke of strength more than it asked for sympathy; “it was weird, they saw the photos I hang on my wall everywhere we go. They couldn’t get it exact, of course, ‘cause it was only a few 2D images and most of them were when he looked like, well, me. So I caught on straight away, _duh_ , and I didn’t wanna ask them to change, ‘cause it’s rude and all, so I just said I wanted to go for a walk. Hunk came, too.”

“Yeah,” Hunk said, “you’re not pretty in a dress, Lance.”

Lance grinned – best friends ever: _CONFIRMED_. He heard Keith cough awkwardly, clearly wishing he had this level of broship.

“Breakfast is served,” a Klonnwar said, and the group offered their enthusiastic thanks and got to eating, Lance still defiantly not looking at Keith, and Keith probably doing the same.

They made light fun of Shiro for his encounter with the Allura mimic, and Hunk told them all about how his Klonnwar ward tried to replicate Lance’s personality by cartwheeling out of the room. It was at the mention of wards that Lance looked up to see Mituu leaning against the panoramic window, smiling at him.

He swallowed his orange juice – which was orange, but didn’t taste like oranges, but what else was he supposed to call it? – heavily.

Another member of staff stepped towards the head of the table.

“If it pleases you,” they said, “Lord Mizmo has requested the Black and Red Paladins to accompany him to the Governing Rooms to discuss the intricacies of an alliance. To the Blue, Yellow and Green Paladins, we offer an all-inclusive tour of our great city, guided by your very own wards.”

Shiro stood to leave and Keith copied apprehensively. He obviously didn’t know why he was chosen for the important, political side of things, and if Lance wasn’t in such a huff with him, he would have spelled it out: MIZMO WANTS IN YOUR PANTS.

Fortunately, Lance knew, with Shiro there, Keith was safe.

“And you’re with me,” a voice behind him said. Lance turned to see Mituu, still in her Klonnwar form but wearing Hulk’s gillet and Lance’s stonewash jeans. “If it pleases you?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lance said; weirdly, Hunk and Pidge didn’t even roll their eyes, they just looked at each other oddly and waved cautiously as he left.

He brushed past Keith, blowing him a nice, juicy, sarcastic kiss (because Keith was going to do _politics_ and Lance was going on a _date,_ so suck it), then followed Mituu outside.

He pretended not to notice that her hair was now black.


	3. Treat Your Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, i wish i had enough impulse control to _not_ post chapters as soon as I've finished them and do regular updates like a normal person, instead, but alas. I do not. Enjoy  <3

They passed four candlelit dinner restaurants by the time Lance admitted that it wasn’t a date.

He vowed not to tell the others; they were smart enough to infer it themselves and Lance was stubborn enough to stay silent when his stud status was under threat. The city, at least, was beautiful; warm coloured fabrics and citrus springs contrasted against huge, square metallic buildings.

And there were mirrors, _everywhere_.

Mituu was clearly passionate about her home, strolling backwards in front of Lance as she indicated to all the landmarks, rarely explaining their history or purpose, but lovingly introducing him to (and mimicking) the people within. Most of the citizens were walking around in a strange blend of the five Paladins, a few even imitating what they knew of Allura and Coran and, once or twice, Lance was unsettled by the sight of a Keith smiling and laughing carefree – something he rarely did these days in the company of anyone but Shiro.

It made his cheekbones more prominent. And his eyes crinkle.

But it wasn’t really Keith.

Not that Lance cared.

“My favourite place in the whole city, even better than the seamstresses and portraiture masters, is here,” Mituu said, when they reached a large area surrounded by a rainbow fence. The stone floor was covered entirely in chalk drawings and children ran excitedly up and down – some with full length beards, some with expert-level make-up, and some just the usual sort of chubby. Lance’s heart leapt painfully; they were about the age of his youngest sister, Cece.

“We train in the art of mimicry from a very young age,” she explained, entering through the gate. She was instantly flocked by kids, grabbing her hands and attempting to copy her outfit, “of course, it’s an intrinsic trait of ours, but only with practice can it be perfected – and we _are_ a race of perfectionists.”

Something tugged at Lance’s jean pocket and, when he looked down, he saw a child with blue hair and incredibly out of proportion freckles.

“Are you human?” they said, “you feel human. But sometimes I can’t tell when people are pretenden-pretendenen- _pretenendening_.”  

“I most certainly am,” Lance said brightly, crouching down so he was at their level.

“I can be human, too!” they said, and scrunched their face up to the point that it resembled a silver pug, squeezing their fingers into little fists and making a noise similar to an overheated computer. Slowly, their hair started to change, growing shorter and fading into a dark brown. Within moments, they looked like a mini, almost-Lance, hair a tad too curly and chin too round.

“It’s like looking in a mirror,” Lance said, and the child laughed, delighted.

“Yay! Rephlin – she’s my teacher – says I never look how I’m supposed to,” their expression grew darker, sadder. “They said I’ll never make it into the elite.”

“The elite?”

“The top Klonnwar! Th-they can transform into anyone they want, and they get to work at the palace, and they never have to look like themselves _ever_. That’s what Mituu is! She comes and helps in our lessons sometimes cause she’s so good at it.”

“You don’t want to look like yourself?” Lance asked, overcome with the desire to hug this child and shower them with praise so that they never doubted themself again. He almost did, as well, until he remembered that this kid wasn’t actually related to him.

Not to mention that the last time he hugged something cute on an alien planet, it turned out to be the planet’s most feared serial killer rabbit.

In his defence, it was _so fwuffy_.

Even without hugging, he had to do something. 90% of the reason Lance adopted such a cocky persona in the first place was because he didn’t want his siblings to doubt their own self-importance. And, whilst it was partly a charade, whilst he doubted himself more often than he’d admit  (crumbled, sometimes, beneath the little niggles of insecurity that told him he didn’t have a place in the world, in the team), it was that experience that generated the empathy to carry on.

And it was _easy_ with enough practice, like learning a new language; sure, the swagger was natural, as well as the quick-wit and even quicker bickering, but the constant ability to keep his head held high however many times he was told his plans were dumb or his piloting skills were scrutinized was a talent all on its own. Soon it became habit, and then it became hope.

He might not be handsome enough for Allura to take fancy, fast and furious enough to be a true rival to Keith, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t _pretend_ for the sake of making it look like his place was deservedly at the top of the podium each and every time.

Just in case his family was watching. Believing in him, like they tended to do. The sentimental bunch. 

“Ya’know, where I’m from we have a little saying which says it’s what’s _inside_ that counts,” Lance said, lightly tapping where the kid’s heart would be if they were human – or maybe their insides were human, too, meaning that Lance’s figure of speech had as much use as the max-setting on Coran’s moustache trimmer.

The kid stared at him with their head tilted.

“Like … our bones? ‘Cause they can change, too!”

That answered that question.

“No, like your personality: what makes you, you!”

“But what about what makes me you?” they said, “that’s the most importantful!”

There was movement next to him as Mituu crouched down and took the child’s hands in hers, smiling gently.

“Human culture is very different to ours,” she said, and Lance got the feeling that she was saying it more for his benefit than theirs, “and you’ll learn that when you’re older, how to understand all the weird things they say and do, so that you can do them, too! And you’ll do it perfectly, Avva, because you’re the hardest worker I know.”

Clearly Mituu knew how to cheer up Klonnwar children better than Lance, because Avva’s grin looked ready to power the entire city.

“You really think so?”

“I know so,” Mituu said, “there are so many wonderful things you get to learn but,” she looked at Lance, then, cheerful and considering, “Lance is right, too. We must stay true to ourselves and our people.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, feeling his face flush at her earnestness, “awesome.”

After Lance threw out a few one-liners to the kids to help them perfect his voice – little snippets like “ _stop trying to get all up in my bizznasty_ ” and “ _what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you_ ” – they set off back to the palace.

Mituu was quieter on the return journey, listening to Lance talk, instead, about how humans are attracted to physical appearance, too, and alter themselves accordingly for the benefit of others sometimes, but good looking’s a subjective term and not even all _that_ , if you take into account other stuff like a sense of humor and an appreciation of video games.

“But, I guess, even that doesn’t matter too much,” Lance said, now on a rant of sorts. A familiar sensation had overcome him – the feeling that he could stop talking, if he wanted to reserve some mystery and give someone else a chance – but, if the words wanted to wiggle out eventually, he might as well let them.

Just like tapeworm. Ish.

“Take Keith for example,” he said, gesticulating towards a grocer in the shape of Keith, packing away some spirally looking cucumber things. “You’d think he doesn’t have a funny bone in him, right? You’re hyper-perceptive, so you know: the guy’s as dry as the Sahara. That’s a desert where I’m from, by the way. A hot one. Not that Keith’s hot! But we went to like, a rain desert once? So, by desert I meant, a sandy one. A dry one. Whatever.

“So – the dude cracks a joke once a century, which means if a sense of humour is up there on your list, he ain’t got it. And he can somehow pilot any ship he wants but can’t figure out how to add a roof to his spaceship in _The Sims_? That’s just wrong. What I’m trying to say is, maybe he’s _somewhat aesthetically pleasing_ in the _generic bad boy way_ , and maybe he’s funny accidentally – but that doesn’t count – and he’s like. You know. You know?”

They were stood outside the palace gates now, the lilac sky trickling into a deep purple and casting shadows over Mituu’s expression, making it even more unreadable. For onlookers in the town square, it was almost romantic: stood silhouetted in the grand but intricate white archway, Lance in a daze after a verbal rampage that blurred into nothingness just two seconds after he found a full-stop, and Mituu portraying a sympathetic stillness.

“I know,” she said, then shrunk a few inches, hair shortening to just below her neckline, jaw squaring, eyes widening, lips thinning, eyebrows growing. Within seconds, Lance couldn’t tell her and Keith apart even if the latter started treating him with Mituu’s gentile kindness, or Mituu started doing crazy impressive fight moves down a hallway of bad guys.

Lance was confused. Was this some sort of practice run? Was she absorbing everything Lance had said and taking it for a test-run, seeing if she could accurately portray the dorky, dangerous stoicism Lance had clumsily described?

Mituu stepped agonizingly close, and in that second Lance knew he was very wrong: this was incredibly out of character, grade F for mimicry of Keith Kogane, try again later, or don’t, please.

“How does this make you feel?” She asked, tenderly. Her – his, _Keith’s_ – lips were almost grazing his own, her breath dancing over the cracks in his lips like a breeze over the dunes in the Sahara.

That’s right, the Sahara.

The dry, dry Sahara.

The hot Sahara.

The hot, hot Keith.

Lance wanted to run, but his feet were stuck firmly to the ground despite his knees’ sudden desire to dance all over the shop.

“Um,” Lance said. His face was burning and he couldn’t close his eyes, he couldn’t, because this was slotting a lot of puzzle pieces into their designated places and suddenly the door to Room 101 was open but it wasn’t Room 101 at all – it was his room at home, on Earth, with his immature constellation bedsheets and a desk full of unfinished homework. But Keith was there. Lying on his bed. Making fun of the fact that Lance still kept his teddy, Slim Sheddy, next to his pillow, poking its nose fondly all the same.

And what.

The.

Fuck.

“Does this have any relevance to our previous conversation?” He squeaked.

“It’s an exchange of cultures,” Mituu said. “You have told me yours, and now I am showing you mine. When we find someone attractive, when we _desire_ them, we tell them. Tell me, Lance, why do humans keep it within?”

She was closer now; Lance could feel the leather of Keith’s gloves on his hips, and Keith’s fringe was tickling his brow. He wanted to lean in further and he was, shit, he _was_ , even though it was wrong on _so_ many levels even Pidge couldn’t count them. This was immoral, wasn’t it? It was weird and dangerous and why did he even want to do it – Keith was a dick, a self-righteous, arrogant, douchebag with a mullet, of all things, and he had no respect for Lance, whatsoever.

Keith was up there. He was so high up there that he was just a dot in the sky. He was right where Lance wanted to be.

But, maybe, instead of kicking Keith off the podium so that Lance could get on top, they could share it.

Maybe, even, Lance would be alright with sharing a podium a little lower down.

 _No. Shut up_ _and_ _step away from the Keith clone, the Keith clone that is making bedroom eyes at you, the KEITH KOGANE CLONE that is LITERALLY imagining you naked. This isn’t Keith. This isn’t Keith and however much you want or don’t want it to be, this is totally off-the-scale on the weird-alien-predicaments meter. Step away you totally horny tool._

And he did, just in time to notice Pidge and Hunk staring at the two of them with mouths the size of moons.

“I can explain,” Lance said, hoping he didn’t look as absolutely wrecked as he felt.

“No need,” Pidge said, standing beside her own ward –  an appropriate distance away – who looked to be carrying ten trillion different planetary samples.

“Yeah,” Hunk said, “we’re proud you two finally found the courage! Well done, man!”

“Wha- no, no!” Lance spluttered, “this isn’t Keith, this is _Mituu_ , my _ward_.”

“You were about to make-out with someone who looks like Keith?” Hunk asked.

“But who _isn’t_ Keith?” Pidge added.

“No! It was – it’s a long – I had – she was just!”

Lance deflated, running his hands through his hair and grimacing at the sweat. He didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or arousal but it certainly wasn’t dry. As the Sahara. Heh. The little things.

 “Do you guys reckon you can, like, not tell anyone about this, ever?” he said.

“Sure, buddy,” Hunk replied, putting his arm around Lance’s shoulders and guiding him towards the palace, followed by Pidge and their wards. Mituu gracefully transformed back into herself – or what Lance had assumed was herself before the playschool conversation – and shrugged her shoulders at the other Klonnwar. “You just take your time.”

“Yeah,” Pidge said, “I’m sure this all means absolutely nothing.”


	4. Sat on the Shelf with Your Self

The Governing Room was at the highest point of the palace; a deceivingly small room that appeared larger due to the encircling glass walls and mirrored ceiling, reflecting the ornate rugs beneath them.

Keith avoided looking above him, and around him, and basically anywhere there was a possibility he’d see a replica of himself. He couldn’t explain why the concept of clones was so freakin’ nauseating, but it made his gut heavy and his head ache. It’s not as if he found himself unattractive (didn’t care either way, in truth): he worked out often, dressed well and, even if he’d prefer to be a little taller and a little less baby-faced, there were more important things to worry about.

It was similar, he reasoned, to hearing a recording of yourself played back – familiar but distorted. Somehow, he’d never realised that so much of his hair fell in his face, or that it had a weird cowlick in the back, or that his jacket collar was so _big_.  

And the constant compliments among the copying weren’t making it any easier. The Klonnwar appeared to be a species void of animosity, but that didn’t mean they were handing out alliances without any effort on the Paladin’s part. Mizmo, especially, had yet to take his eyes off Keith since he’d entered the room, and, seeing as Mizmo was now walking around in the image of Keith (to the confusion of both himself and Shiro), it was proving to be an incredibly awkward and intimate meeting.

“It’s a great honour to be mimicked by Lord Mizmo,” Freer, Keith’s ward, told him. Keith nodded but couldn’t find it in himself to reply with anything but bitterness, so he kept his mouth shut instead. Ever since Freer had woken him up pretending to be _Lance_ of all people, Keith had been wary of the guy.

It had to be Lance, hadn’t it? It had to be Lance’s _face_ , should he say, glowing around the edges with the warmth of the Samwa morning sun, smiling like mutual courtesy wasn’t such a damn chore for the two of them.

Keith had begrudgingly entertained the lie for a few minutes. With all his battle training, he was quick to focus in the mornings, so he’d realized the truth almost instantly –not quick enough, unfortunately, to keep his heart from leaping into his throat.

Lance actually _did_ wake him up in the Castle, sometimes: obnoxiously banging on his door, marching into his room with a facemask on and towel around his head, demanding an extra training session or asking if he had a spare pair of socks (because he and Pidge had used all of his to make a puppet show for Coran and Allura about the historical importance of _Pokémon_ ).

Keith never grumbled; he gave Lance the socks, pretended he wasn’t thrilled about an extra training session, all whilst telling himself that it was worth it. Because Lance would call him a friend, one day, and Keith would smile and act like that was enough.

Seeing as Keith hadn’t complained, Freer saw no issue with continuing to play at Lance, and was now stood painfully close to him, dressed in the Klonnwar military uniform (tight and black with white lining), sporting Lance’s lanky frame and easy smile. It was distracting, and Keith wanted to ask him to stop, but he’d never been great at the diplomacy side of things and he’d promised Allura he’d try this time.

That didn’t stop him from really, really wanting to stab something.

Especially when Freer put his hand on the small of his back to guide him in the right direction, or whispered translations into his ear in; Lance’s loud, unforgiving voice diluted into a pleasant murmur.

“And you have no connection to the enemy,” Mizmo said, knocking Keith out of his trance. Freer was standing very close, close enough for the material of his jacket to brush against Keith’s bare arms, and Keith wanted to cringe at how much of an adolescent he was being. He was one pigtail-pull away from writing _KEITH 4 LANCE_ on the dashboard of Red. “Despite your _special_ circumstances?”

 It took a second for Keith to realize Mizmo was addressing him, alone. Shiro had rightfully taken charge of negotiations, and Keith had hung around observing, learning. Shiro had a presence that Keith knew was purely natural, the sort of charisma that couldn’t be taught, and Keith doubted he’d ever get even halfway there.

“We have friends within the Galra,” Keith said. “They’re good people and they’re on the inside. Some,” he swallowed, “some have given their lives for our cause, and I’d do the same. My blood should have nothing to do with these negotiations.”

Mizmo smiled – slow, almost proud – and Keith wanted out.  

“I do not doubt your allegiance,” Mizmo said. “Nor your passion. You intrigue me, Red Paladin.”

“If you do not doubt us, what do we still have to discuss?” Keith said, and Shiro shot him a pointed, warning glace. Right. Diplomacy.

“I trust you,” Mizmo said, still smiling, still Keith, “I _enjoy_ you, even. But a leader cannot sacrifice his men simply because he is fond of the cause, you must know this. You are battle-hardened and a strong tactician, I hear. Would you risk the lives of those you love without taking the necessary precautions?”

Keith thought of the other Paladins, and Allura and Coran. A few months ago, maybe, but now?

“No.”

“Exactly,” his fingers danced elegantly over the table, toying with the crisp corners of the paper whilst his eyes remained locked on Keith’s. Every movement was deliberate, every word chosen to entice, to make Keith question what he wanted. “Now, we’re all quite tired, are we not? Perhaps we’ll finish here for the day. There’s much to think on, and I don’t want my guests to be too exhausted to enjoy the Visitor’s Ball.”

“B-ball?” Keith looked to Shiro, who looked to be almost blushing. Mizmo laughed.

“But, of course! We celebrate the attendance of all our visitors, and you are special ones, indeed. Tomorrow evening, we shall provide the appropriate attire.” Mizmo clapped his hands sharply, and members of staff began clearing the table.

Freer placed his hand on Keith’s shoulder, and Keith swiftly shrugged him off.

“I’m fine,” he said, “it’s fine. I know my own way back.”

He bid Lord Mizmo and Shiro farewell, and made his way briskly out the room. He was not going to dance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the dull purple evening, just below his spot on the shared area’s balcony, Lance spied a group of fake Paladins hanging out by the fountain. His legs were hanging off the edge and his face was squeezed between the bars and he concluded, sourly, that he was having A Moment.

Really, he thought, he hadn’t learned anything shocking during the whole _nearly-kissing-a-fake-Keith_ debacle. He’d learned that he was a horny, hormonal teenage boy who’d kiss anyone that offered and _that_ , anyone would agree, was not exactly brand new information. For some reason, though, he’d subconsciously assumed that Keith would be the exception to the rule because, well, he was the exception to a lot of rules.

He was also a dick. That was the second thing Lance had learned which, he sighed, was also not a particularly shocking revelation. Keith was a dick; a dick with a dumb fringe and big eyes and a heavy existence, always there, breathing down Lance’s neck even when he was ten planets away.

Hunk and Pidge had made good with their promise to keep quiet. They still watched him, though, with interest, like he was a funny looking bug on the bathroom window. When Keith stormed into the room and slammed his bedroom door, all without a _hello_ , Lance knew he had to get out of there. He’d been psyching himself up to see the real Keith again, thinking that he’d enter and Lance would see someone totally different, but he hadn’t. It had been the same old Keith, now with 5,000 more complications for the low-low price of Lance’s literal soul.

 Fake-Pidge below began climbing fake-Hunk’s back, laughing raucously, cackling in a way that sounded unnatural. Fake-Hunk held her ankles as she settled wobbly onto his shoulders, and fake-Shiro jokingly threatened to climb fake-Keith, too. Fake-Keith shoved him away.

In a rush of resentment, Real-Lance threw a rock at the group, then quickly skidded back to hide in the shadows, stopping when he bumped into a pair of knees. Real-Keith’s knees.

“Hey,” Keith said.

Lance shot up from the ground and tried to straighten his shirt, brushed his hair behind his ears, kicked his leg out experimentally and gave it a shake because, apparently, his body had decided to act on its own.

“Wha- hey, Keith. Real Keith, right?”

“Yeah,” Keith said. “What’s, uh, up with you?”

Keith was watching Lance curiously, glaring like Lance’s fumbling was a ploy to cover up something stupid Lance had done. _Ha_ , little did he know, everything Lance had done today was stupid.

“Nothing! Nothing, man. Just chilling. Up here. Watching ourselves be adorable.”

“Ourselves?” Keith asked, and Lance realized what he’d said.

“Not me and you! We’re not adorable. I mean, I am. I definitely am. Not together, though. Us, I mean.” Lance considered the repercussions of leaping from the balcony – maybe he’d land in fake-Shiro’s muscular arms, or perhaps the fountain would be deep enough to prevent any bones breaking. “There’s a group of Klonnwar down there dressed as us. It’s pretty freaky.”

From his furrowed eyebrows and thin-lipped frown, it was clear that Keith’s suspicion had only grown tenfold since Lance’s shitstorm of an explanation. Still, he walked towards the balcony railing and leant over the bar, watching the fake-five take about a dozen selfies on their weird, spongey alien devices.

“They look happy,” he said.

Lance joined him, hands quivering as he rested them on the bar.

“Fake-Lance doesn’t,” he said, “look at him.”

He pointed towards where fake-Lance was dipping his feet in the water, shouting, ignored, to the others. Fake-Hunk and fake-Pidge were running around, still connected. Fake-Shiro had his arm around fake-Keith’s shoulder like a picture-perfect big brother; conspiring, it looked like – snorting as they whispered to each other. Fake-Lance shouted something else, but the words were lost in the rush of the fountain and hushed whispers of his friends.

“Fifth-wheeling,” Real-Lance said. Keith stared at him.

“They’re not really us,” he said. “They don’t know us, all of us.”

“I think he’s doing a pretty good job of being loud and stupid.”

“Please,” Keith said, lips curling, “no-one can do that better than you.”

Lance tilted his head to look at Keith and, for a second, smiled back. It was a joke, he told himself. He was joking, which means, maybe, he doesn’t think you’re loud and stupid.

 _But you are,_ a voice inside said.  

“Maybe they’re better than us.”

“Maybe,” Keith said, “but they’re copying us, aren’t they? They must think we’re alright.”

“I thought you hated them copying you.”

“I do, but …it’s not too bad, having more of you around.” Lance blanched and caught Keith stumbling on his words, too. “ _Versions_ of you that don’t try to antagonise me all the time, I mean.”

“So, _better_ versions,” Lance grumbled, “like I said.”

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his wrist. Keith was holding it, staring up at him intently, and Lance flashed back to Mituu leaning in precariously close. This felt different, though; this was real. The irrational part of Lance told him that it was handy he’d had a practice run, or else he’d be squealing like a flat-tyre or punching Keith, panicked, in the face. The more rational part, a quiet voice that rarely made itself known, told him to step away before he did something stupid.

“However perceptive they are,” Keith said, voice low, “they can’t know everything. They don’t know what makes you, you.”

He looked like he truly believed it; like he knew Lance was deeper than he let on. Like he believed that Lance had _layers_ , was complex, idiosyncratic and unable to replicate.

And Lance wanted that to be true: the part about the layers and the part about Keith thinking that he was more than the spare wheel with a big-mouth and a bad pun-collection the size of Jupiter.

But he didn’t, so he snapped his arm out of Keith’s grip and scowled.

“Oh, and _you_ do?” Lance said. He was full-blown angry now, but he wasn't sure on the details of _why_. He was aware that it was rapidly becoming claustrophobic up here, a tiny balcony with Keith mere millimetres away, talking as if he understood what Lance was getting at without either of them speaking clearly.

Fuck, his eyes were so big. Knowing.

_He doesn’t know you, so why the fuck is he pretending that he does?_

“You don’t know me, _Keith_. At all. Just ‘cause you’re up on your high horse doesn’t mean that you can see everything that us little-guys are doing on the ground. Shit, you probably can’t see anything through all that hair, anyway, so why don’t you back off and go back to sucking off Lord Mizmo in his sexy Shiro costume!”

It was the sort of unprovoked speech that deserved a deafening silence. Instead, while Keith stared agape and – dare Lance admit it – hurt, the splashing and giggling of their counterparts continued.

“Do it!” Fake-Pidge shouted.

“Kiss him, kiss him!” Fake-Hunk chanted.

And, the fool that he is, Lance glanced down, just in time to see fake-Lance slap a big, sloppy kiss on fake- Keith’s lips, bursting with confidence. Happy.

When he turned back, he was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not getting round to replying to all your comments - I promise I read every one and I love them (and you) all <3


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